


Pyroclastic

by ice_evanesco



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sherlock Being an Idiot, mycroft exploding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_evanesco/pseuds/ice_evanesco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock pushes an already stressed Mycroft a little too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyroclastic

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt fill for the Sherlock Kink Meme, but I lost the link to the prompt and don't remember the exact words of the prompt either. :[
> 
> Edit: [Loki_Laufeyson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Loki_Laufeyson/pseuds/Loki_Laufeyson) helped me find the prompt link, and it's right [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119573023#t119573023)! :D

"Diet not going well?" Sherlock's voice was snide. Mycroft's jaw clenched, standing firm, his grey eyes fixing onto Sherlock in a glare that might even had shut Hitler’s anti-Semitic diatribes up.

Mycroft had suffered one of the most trying days of his life within the past 24 hours. First, some idiot in the London Met lost the keys to Wembley Stadium, causing panic in his office and a flurry of paperwork to sign and reports to look over. Security was bordering on paranoia during the Olympics period, and the earlier gaffes regarding the security company had been enough of an embarrassment without this to add salt to the wound.

He called his (then) boyfriend, Greg to ask him out for lunch, only to end up making a snide remark, or several about the general competency of the London Met, and causing a shouting match that ended with Greg snapping, "NOT MY DIVISION!"

Mycroft had hissed out, "I'll make it your division." Then he had slammed the phone down, and promptly issued an order for the entire homicide team to comb London for the lost keys, while knowing it was redundant to do so; the orders for replacement having gone out half an hour before, his signature on it. It was spiteful, and mean, but at that point in time, frustrated beyond belief that such a human error could occur at one of the most important moments in modern British history, he didn’t care. It even felt good to “punish” them. 

Greg had found that out, and now they were not on talking terms. Well, they did speak, but Greg was mostly the one issuing the rant, and Mycroft barely listening, putting Greg on speaker. This caused Mycroft to cut him off at the wrong part with a condescending “Yes, dearest, that will do,” and his office rang with the sound of a phone slamming.

After that, he had to go over the security plans all over again, and arrange for a sweep to make sure there were no intruders at the stadium. This required more money, more time, more people, and Mycroft had to wring himself dry trying to find the people required. Almost all the forces at his disposal were utilized, making it a bigger challenge.

Then he was handed a thoroughly ridiculous report on the change in ticketing measures to fill up empty seats at the Games for aesthetic reasons, and made to read the entire 30 pages through because it was to be put into effect within hours, while the reassessment of the Budget waited impatiently on the corner of his desk, stamped with URGENT, and another set of papers pertaining to lowering interest rates for bank loans tried to attract his attention. He rolled his eyes at the people around him not having any sense of what was truly urgent and what was not. Budget revision was urgent, because they were experiencing negative growth. Lost keys at an Olympic Stadium due to abject stupidity, not so much. Lowering interest for bank loans was urgent, to encourage spending and cash-flow. Seats at stadiums being filled, not so much.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on those, and he hacked irritably on them with his fountain pen. Mont Blanc, right-hander nib, because Sherlock stole his things and the right-hander nib made it impossible for left-handed Sherlock to use without breaking the pen entirely. It spoke about their relationship when Mycroft rather his items be destroyed than share.

Just when he thought he could go off and go home to apologize to his Greg for his horrible behavior (because it was indeed horrible, and Mycroft could only blame it on himself... and Syria, because they had kept him awake the prior day, thereby affecting his judgment), a call came in saying that the body of one of his MI6 people had been found, and Greg's team was there.

Not the best of reconciliations, but Mycroft tried, only to be rebuffed by Greg who had glared at him and snapped at him about protocol and governments stealing scenes even while Mycroft wanted to explain about how it was one of his own people, and this wasn’t supposed to happen and how sorry he was. Mycroft wanted to cry right then (sleep deprivation and the first ever real petty fight in their relationship did that). Instead, he looked down and blinked several times, and did what Winston Churchill would have done. Keep calm and carry on.

He did wipe his eyes surreptitiously with his handkerchief, but made sure no one saw. Unfortunately that was the moment that Sherlock arrived, and sensing vulnerability, pounced like a wolf upon a fat little lamb. It was one of few chances at revenge, and Holmeses excelled in revenge.

It started with "Dropped your contacts?" then went to "Diet not going well?" and continued onwards to "I'm not surprised that it failed, honestly, you have so little self-control."

Mycroft stood and bore it all with an impressive amount of grace for a person who was already reaching the end of their tether.

But then Sherlock found the crux of the issue, "Greg broke up with you didn't he? I'm not surprised, considering what you did. It seems the homicide team hates you more than they hate me, and possibly even more than I hate you. You can hardly keep a person near you for even a month."

"Your only talent is to be hated, isn't it, Mycroft?"

Mycroft had never lost his temper in his life. He was what Mummy called a sweet-tempered child. He never argued with her, never contradicted either of his parents, and he bore with Sherlock’s insults and bullying (how humiliating, being bullied by one’s seven year old brother at the age of fourteen) with the utmost tolerance. His mild temper had come in handy throughout his career. He was not one to explode, nor was he the type to panic, or react in anyway. If Father hadn’t known other members of the family with such unrelenting patience, he would have thought Mycroft was quite the oddity, considering how he, his wife and his younger son all had incendiary temperaments.

 It was therefore unsurprising that he couldn’t predict how he would react when he finally did lose his temper, and he couldn't remember when he snapped, but suddenly he had his hands around Sherlock's throat and was squeezing ever harder, saying in a choked voice, "I'll kill you right this instant, you-"

Then he was being pulled away, restrained by the homicide team while Sherlock stared at him wide-eyed, and afraid, stumbling back into John. Even the hardened soldier looked at a loss for what to do at such an explosion, hazel eyes wide. For a seemingly mild person, this was a pyroclastic flow of dark rage, murderousness and temporary insanity. Then as soon as it descended, it was gone.

Mycroft had never raised a hand to his brother in his life, and they were both equally terrified of this new side to him. Mycroft stared down at his hands, his vision going blurry, even as John tugged Sherlock away, the other man paler than pale.

Then he cried. Tears just started falling, unnoticed, even as his face struggled to remain impassive. It was too much. It was all too much. This was the very thing an elder brother should not do, and he did it. He had always been taught to treat his fragile younger brother with the utmost care, and now he had broken the covenant to his parents to care for Sherlock. What would they say? What could he say? He very nearly killed his own brother. If they had been alone without anyone to separate them, he would have.

He felt like a beast, out of control and ravening, and Sherlock's shocked wide eyes cut him deeper than the harsh words of Greg earlier that day. The restraining arms lessened with each sob. The other people must all be disgusted at him, at his weakness. How could he lead the country with this lack of control? He was ruined.

He could hear himself sobbing and making pitiful sounds, before the hands holding him spun him around and hugged him close.  The scent of Greg’s cologne and gunpowder filled his senses, and Mycroft clutched on to the other man like a lifeline. Greg had saved Sherlock from Mycroft. "Oh, Mycroft." Greg's voice was soft, resigned. "Mycroft, you idiot."

Buried in the safety of Greg, Mycroft cried. Then another pair of arms joined Greg's and a sardonic voice said, "That was- you had quite a grip, Mycroft." Sherlock was breaking his aversion for bodily contact to give Mycroft a rare hug. Mycroft wrapped an arm around them both, gasping against tears.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft was soon bundled into his car by Greg, the other man asking someone else to take over the crime scene. It was all a blur to Mycroft, who had been completely exhausted by his strange and unfamiliar emotions.

The ride home was silent; the only sound was the slow rasp of Greg’s breathing, and the drumbeat of his heart as Mycroft rested on his chest, a wreck of a man. It had been an ordinary day when it started, but it went so wrong, so quickly, and now Mycroft felt like he betrayed the two men that he loved.

Greg, the only person outside of his family that he truly loved, and adored, maybe even put on a pedestal, because of his unrelenting determination, and his strict abidance to his principles. Mycroft had shown Greg how ugly and petty he could be, exerting his power like some common corrupt official, having them doing menial tasks like searching for a set of keys.

Sherlock, his younger brother, who Mycroft had cared for since birth, and had known was special since the moment he knew of his existence. He fed him bottles, played pirates with him, and even fetched him to and fro from school, carrying his bag and sometimes even piggy-backing the younger boy when Sherlock complained of being tired. He watched as Sherlock had started to lift his head, roll over, crawl, toddle, and finally run, encouraging his growth and feeling inordinately proud of every tiny milestone. When Sherlock had fallen into drugs, Mycroft’s world crumbled, and he had taken every measure, made every possible sacrifice to have Sherlock recover from his addiction. But today was the day he tried to take his brother’s life.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to keep the fresh tears welling up deep inside that cracked, broken, wounded part in him. He had to make amends, but for the first time was entirely clueless as to how to go about it.

He had stomped on Greg’s professional pride, and humiliated him in front of his team of people. Greg was his job; he spent so many hours working, and sacrificed his personal and social life for it. At one period of time, it was all he had to go on. There was no home to return to, no one to love. And Mycroft had ruined that. How could Mycroft work to restore it? If he got Greg promoted, everyone would know. Greg would know, and above all else, Greg hated cronyism and nepotism.

Sherlock was even harder to please. As a baby he was a grumpy little thing, with an angelic face but a devil’s screech lurking behind it. As a boy he was sulky. As a man, he was headstrong and immovable. If there was one constant, it was Sherlock. He already hated Mycroft for what the man had done to him (for him, in excessive amounts).

He was entirely lost in his thoughts, in a daze even as the car glided to a smooth stop. Greg tapped his arm, rousing him, and led him into the house. His touch didn’t resonate in Mycroft as it normally did, didn’t make his heart beat faster, or make him smile, or reach for more. Mycroft was, for the lack of any better words, hollow. His mind felt empty of everything except the memories of his conflicts with Greg and Sherlock.

Greg put Mycroft in bed, and the younger man let him, pliable as a doll, even as he was being undressed, and dressed again in his pajamas and tucked in. Greg pulled back with a sigh, and Mycroft finally moved, clutching his hand with the weakness of the aftermath of a huge emotional release, and whispered, “Are you leaving?” His grey eyes were desolate as a storm above empty moorland, but dry. He could not cry now, would not.

“Oh God, you really are an idiot.” Greg said, shaking his head, “Of course not. I had someone else take over. Of course I’m not leaving to return to the scene.”

“Leaving me- I mean.” Mycroft said. “I was- I was wrong to do that to you. I was horrid, and petty. Greg,” He swallowed the splinters of his shattered pride, “Gregory, I’m sorry.”

Greg knelt down beside Mycroft, putting them at eye level. His brown eyes were gentle and kind, and he shook his head, “I’m not leaving you at all.” He kissed Mycroft briefly, and said, “I’m just changing out of my clothes.” He stood and gave a wry smile, “I might have had a few cigarettes today.”

The man was as good as his word, and soon Mycroft was curled up with his head on Greg’s shoulder, holding hands with his lover. The silence was comfortable, soothing, loving, but Greg broke it to say, “There’s nothing that needs forgiving, we’ve both just had difficult days, that’s all. It was bound to happen sooner or later, My.”

Mycroft nodded, “But- Sherlock-”

“Sherlock is a git and deserves what he got.” Greg said firmly, before a smile made a dimple appear briefly. “Although, that was quite the show. I would have bet on you to win, if I didn’t have to restrain you.”

Mycroft whispered, “I would have won. I know how to kill.”

Greg kissed his forehead, “We’ll just keep that between us.”

“How do I make amends?” Mycroft asked, his thumb rubbing the back of Greg’s hand gently.

“Apologize, and mean it. Even Sherlock can hear an apology when it’s heartfelt. Or John will beat him into hearing it.” Greg grinned.

Mycroft’s head lifted, startled, “John beats Sherlock?!”

“Only when Sherlock begs.” Greg smirked, looking youthful, and mischievous.

Mycroft ignored that, though his scrunched up expression of distaste showed that he had heard. He picked up his mobile phone and dialed Sherlock’s number.

It rang for a while before Sherlock answered. Before he even said a word, Mycroft blurted out, “I’m sorry for what I did.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was curt, as it usually was when dealing with emotions. “No one blames you.”

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” Mycroft asked, worry in his voice and his curled up posture. Greg rubbed his back soothingly. “Will you be fine?”

“You didn’t hurt me at all.” Sherlock said, before John’s voice sounded in the background, telling him that he “should know what to say.” Sherlock snorted, and said, “In any case, if there was to be blame apportioned, most of it should go to me.”

“Say it, Sherlock.” John’s voice was mild, pleasant, and yet vaguely threatening.

“What I mean to say is-“ Sherlock said hesitantly, before his voice went distant, like he turned away from the phone to whine at John, “Do I really have to?” Then there was a sudden yelp.

Sherlock’s voice returned, and he said in a rushed manner, “What I mean to say is that I am also sorry for provoking you.”

Mycroft bit his lip, and said, “I forgive you, if you will forgive me.”

“Yes, yes. I forgive you.” Sherlock said hurriedly, and the phone line went dead.

Mycroft placed his phone down, gingerly, and Greg asked, “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think,” Mycroft said delicately, “I have just experienced the activities between John and Sherlock that you just told me about.”

Greg just laughed, and pulled Mycroft down into his arms again, holding him tight.

 


End file.
